The Borrower called John
by scaryprincess
Summary: AU sought of x-over with Arrietty. Basically a kid lock fiction. Sherlock Holmes is a misunderstood but intelligent child has gone to the country to stay with his grandparents – his grandmother saying she sees little people in the garden and when he starts seeing them too…in particular, the one who calls himself John. R & R please
1. Prologue

The Borrower called John.

AU: Basically a kidlock fiction. Sherlock Holmes is a misunderstood but intelligent child who is sent to the country to live with his grandparents – his grandmother says that she sees little people in the garden and soon he starts seeing them too…in particular, the one who calls himself John. Cute friendship MAGIC!

Disclaimer: I haven't read the _Borrower's_, though I have watched the studio ghibli film based on the book.

K Fantasy/family.

Sherlock Holmes was different than the other little boys in his class; only twelve and already finding his school work boring. While most his age would play football and bin cricket in the dirt fields behind the school, he would sneak off to an unused and broken water drain pipe, a space so cramped that he couldn't stretch out his long legs; he had to bend them and press his feet to the concrete pipe wall to fit.

He endured the tight squeeze for one reason: there, in his private little hiding place, he would be hidden from all the others that didn't understand him. Many days Sherlock brought books to read – often only remerging when the sun had long since gone down. Other days he fell asleep there only to be jolted awake by his father carrying him to the car. But that was a long time ago, when his father had the time to be concerned about his youngest son. Nowadays things were different.

Sherlock he first found the secluded place when he antagonised some older boys and needed to find a place to hide and lick his wounds; the broken pipe was hidden in a slippery, muddy slope – once buried in the hill but the soil had crumbled away with rain, so it made a perfect hide away. The older boys lingered around well into the late afternoon but Sherlock enjoyed the silence and secrecy of his spot so much that he lost track of time. His father had to ruin it though, shouting Sherlock's name and forcing him to respond.

When Sherlock asked his father how he had found him his father simply glanced at his eldest son, Mycroft making Sherlock scowl. Bloody Mycroft and his insipid nosiness.

* * *

The next time Sherlock hid himself away was only two years ago, he had tried to run away from home. Unfortunately with no money for a cab, and as he had missed his bus out of town, he returned to his hide away, sitting on the ledge and swinging his legs in the air, his backpack slumped next to him. It had gotten quite cold so he pulled out the jumper he'd snatched from an op-shop, a place where one donated old clothes for the less fortunate – A very different type than the brands his mother insisted he should wear, and something that didn't remind him of his house. It was cream coloured and baggy on his skinny frame but warm nonetheless. It was perfect to wear when he felt so cold and alone.

It was past midnight, when Mycroft braved the slope with his Italian leather shoes – umbrella open, as it had started to rain – the dirt long since turning to mud and the croak of the local frogs sounding through the air.

'Are you done sulking, brother?' Mycroft asked, staring at the pouting child in the empty pipe.

'Where's father?' Sherlock asked, for it was always father that came to get him, be it from detention or seclusion (though never without the constant look of discontent on his face.) But for the past year it had been the driver that picked him up and Sherlock didn't like that. Even though he always looked disapproving Sherlock liked it better when his father came for him. He had thought that running away would make his father come to his aid again. That hypothesis appeared to be incorrect. But why? He looked to Mycroft: where was his father?

'I won't concern him with your temper tantrums' Mycroft softly explained.

'He's gone again is he?' Sherlock muttered – there was no other reason why Mycroft would be speaking so calmly.

'Mummy is very concerned about you' Mycroft huffed. His eyes gazed around the deserted hill, looking everywhere but his younger brother. He was a young politician, only in his early 20's. Already so much had been placed upon his shoulders; he couldn't stand with more guilt.

'Did she just remember she had a second son?' Sherlock questioned a bitter smile on his face.

'Come now, its time for us to go home' Mycroft reached to grab Sherlock, but only catching the jumper – as it was too baggy Sherlock slipped out of it and scooted back further into the old water pipe. The elder Holmes sighed in exasperation.

'What do you think you're going? Running away to join the circus? Sadly, they have no more space in the freak show!' Mycroft didn't give him a chance to answer before quickly grabbing one of Sherlock's feet, and trying to pull the shouting, writhing boy out.

It ended with Sherlock getting into his brother's car grumbling and missing a shoe. It was irritating that his hypothesis had failed but it was worth seeing Mycroft's suit and face covered in mud – Sherlock couldn't stop the grin from spreading across his face when Mummy stared at her muddy son in shock and surprise.

* * *

Now Sherlock was twelve and half-way through an interesting medical file that he had swiped when the doctor wasn't looking – the girl (young woman, Mummy had corrected but to Sherlock a girl is a girl) was called Molly Hooper. The new doctor – or 'Intern, Sherlock, I'm not a doctor yet just an intern,' she told him again and again - had most of the other doctors' attention but she seemed to prefer Sherlock's company whenever he asked to borrow her books or inquire into interesting illnesses happening that day.

She told him he was a 'cool kid' and he often heard her muttering 'if only you were older' when he said something charming or flattering. Often when he sat in one of the chairs reading a medical dictionary she would ask, " Wouldn't you prefer a different book, something easier?" but he always shook his head and kept reading.

He was only borrowing it anyway, he returned it when he went back – Mummy only allowed him to visit this often because she assumed it was Sherlock finding his calling as a doctor. It wasn't. But he wasn't going to tell the woman that.

Sherlock was sitting in his hideaway and it wasn't that late in the day so some children had wandered over from the park, playing make believe –pirates (Sherlock corrected them sometimes on the pirate and ship names), adventurers and fairies. The usual bunch wasn't here; it was, after all, an over-cast day and looked as though it was going to rain soon. A little girl carrying a house made from ice-cream sticks and bark came into Sherlock's line of sight when she crawled close to his hiding spot and peered up at him.

She must've only been eight or nine, with short, soft-looking brown hair.

'What are you doing up there?' She called, just noticing the dark haired boy staring down at her.

'Nothing' Sherlock huffed, 'Reading'

'Funny place to read,' the girl said, and then whistled though one of her missing teeth. 'Funny place to put a fairy house,' Sherlock shot back. Someone smart would put it on top of the hill; this girl was putting it in the gully where, when it rained, it would surely be swept away.

The girl stared at the house in her hands and huffed,

'You boys are so dumb! Just 'cause I'm a girl you think it's for stupid fairies. Fairies are so dumb.' The girl rolled her eyes.

'For a frog then?' Sherlock queried, snickering a little but the girl just poked her tongue out in disgust.

'Ew! No slimy frogs are coming near _this_ house!'

'Then who is it for?' Sherlock asked, adding, 'Besides, it's not slime; it's mucus!'

'It's for little people,' the girl mumbled.

'So fairies?' Sherlock grinned condescendingly at the little girl, about to tell her that there was no such thing.

'No! Little people are different than fairies, and they're real,' she shot back.

'Whatever,' Sherlock rolled his eyes and continued reading. He had no time for idiots.

'…' The girl was finally silent, shooting a shy look to Sherlock every so often as she continued to find the perfect place for her little person house.

'My names Irene…Mr. Non-believer' She sniffed when she'd finished. '…My names Sherlock,' Sherlock murmured, not looking up from his reading, missing Irene's small, shy smile.

* * *

Irene had gone before Sherlock looked up again. As Sherlock stared at the little house it began to lightly rain – and then the familiar roll of his brother's car was soon heard through the pit-pat of rain droplets coming closer. That was funny- usually Mycroft made Sherlock suffer in the rain for longer. With a sigh, Sherlock shoved the medical files back in his bag and jumped out of the pipe, still wearing his school uniform though his jacket wasn't done up and his tie had been shoved somewhere deep in his bag.

Sherlock walked to the little house noticing where water had started to pool around it – a lot of effort had gone into it and surely the girl would be crushed in the morning when it was a sodden mess. Mycroft beeped his horn impatiently, and Sherlock grumbled to himself about stupid little girls and sentiment. He picked up the house anyway and before it got drenched placed it in his hiding place, dry as a bone and hidden from prying eyes.

Sherlock made his way up the slope and to Mycroft's car without looking back; with a scowl he flung the door open only to see not Mycroft's smug face but his father's sombre expression. On the man's face it was almost an improvement to his usual disproval.

'Your grandfather passed on today,' was all Sherlock's father said.

'Oh,' Sherlock muttered.

'When we get home we need to pack your bag, we're catching the train in the morning to comfort your grandmother and attend the funeral,'

Sherlock slipped into the seat, turned to his father and asked,

'What did he die of?'

'Old age.' His father responded not looking at Sherlock.

'Dull,' Sherlock sighed, and they pulled away from the corner – Sherlock staring out of the window as the street lights flashed in the rain.

* * *

TBC?

Going a little AU Sherlock crazy, Irene why you so cute: D please leave a comment, I have an awesome beta, Pinlie. Many thanks for the comments and the support as well – if you like this story and like owls, have a look at my 'Detective of Ga'hoole' owllock story too XD


	2. Chapter 1

The borrower called John chapter 1

WHY IS THIS STORY SO FREAKING CUTE!? At least in my head it is. I don't normally write stuff like this. Anyway if you like this story, have a look at my Detective of Ga'hoole x-over – I suggest if you like owls to read the book series, because it is amazing, and watch the movie.

* * *

Sherlock would not say he disliked his grandfather, it was just that the old man was always in the background – fleeting and with no or little impression he left to the world. Sherlock as a boy of twelve didn't understand why he should care about a man he only saw at Christmas and as a name in Sherlock's grandmothers' cursive handwriting in birthday cards.

Sherlock stared at the open coffin, faint smell of rose and lilies filled the church. The wrinkled face was still and the grey hair was neatly in place – Sherlock noted that he seemed one whole piece, good to know his family hired the best of the best then.

With one last look in the coffin, seeing and hoping he could spot something that lead to not dying of old age, but rather an illness or maybe murder. Something interesting at least.

Sherlock sighed with a disappointed look; it was death by natural causes how boring. Sherlock had returned to his seat next to Mycroft, Mummy and Father whom all went before him; Sherlock's grandmother (on his mothers' side) was like a neon light in the sea of dark coloured suits and dresses, she wore sunny and bright clothes and stripped stockings.

When Sherlock had seen her just before the funeral, he had asked mummy if he could wear bright colours too; Mummy stared at her mother as she tied a dark scarf around her dark curls,

'No, I don't think that would be proper, dear.'

'Then why is grandma wearing them?' Sherlock always had questions to ask.

'Because…because Grandma – she is too old to be told what to wear' Sherlock's mother smiled at her youngest, and then muttering about Sherlock's tie.

Sherlock thought he was too old to be told what to wear as well, if Sherlock had his way he would dress up as a pirate to spite his family and to make his grandmother laugh. Sherlock may not have cared much for his grandfather; he did care for the colourful old woman who had travelled to South America, New Orléans and many others to collect bugs and butterflies. And when he said as much, Sherlock's mother simply said to appease her son that he can wear what-ever he wanted at her funeral – however when Mycroft heard of this deal with Sherlock, he had said; not in these words though, if Sherlock spoiled their mothers memory when her time came, he will make Sherlock's life a living hell.

Mycroft was such a spoil sport.

Sherlock's grandmother was a tall and wiry woman, with sharp features, white hair twirled into a bun and with many wrinkles for the many smiles and frowns she had over the years.

The service had come to a halt, the family and the friends filed out into the courtyard of the medieval church; walking into the lovely garden though Sherlock would enjoy entering the cemetery instead but as it was not appropriate…such a shame too, the church and the cemetery go back to the bubonic plague and the witch burnings of medieval times. The large gothic church took up most of the land but there was a small, modern looking house for the groundskeeper or the Paster

The garden was full of roses and lavender, the faint smell of rosemary and citrus from the Pasters own fruit and herb gardens.

Sherlock's grandmother was standing a little away from the rest, cupping a rose and what looked like she was speaking to it, a small smile was on her old face.

'Grandmother?' Sherlock found himself asking, as he walked closer to the older woman, when Sherlock was younger he always recalled how big she seemed – or how tall she seemed. Now she didn't seem that tall or large in this world,

'Oh, Sherlock – I didn't see you there' She grinned.

Sherlock flicked his eyes to the flower and then to his grandmother.

'Sherlock…'

'Why were you speaking to the flower?'

'Because grandma is becoming a little silly in her old age that's all' She laughed, she then enclosed the 12-year-old boy in her arms - Sherlock didn't ever hug his own mother, nor did he let her but he allowed this; just not participating though as the woman clutched him – stroking his curly hair fondly.

'Promise me grandma' Sherlock muttered

'Yes Sherlock?' She asked.

'You can talk to flowers when mother isn't here'

'Oh?'

'I don't want mother to send you away' Sherlock said, maybe it was simply to make the woman promise not to do anything or say anything that would give Sherlock's mother another reason to send the old woman away, (with the passing of grandfather, Sherlock's had eavesdropped on conversations with different nursing homes and hospitals) Sherlock wrapped his arms around the willowy woman's waist in a hug.

* * *

'Sherlock stop playing with your food' Mother huffed annoyed, the Holmes clan were staying at the large, old house with Grandma to keep her company. Sherlock was seating at a table that was made by his grandfather, in retirement the old man still retained the use of his hands and had made use of the timber yard getting rid of wood. Sherlock still had a carved dragon made by his grandfather, when during Christmas he had mentioned in passing that he was reading the Hobbit – the next morning in his stocking was the sleeping dragon.

'Let him be dear' Grandmother sighed, 'He is a little like me, mind on everything else besides eating' She smiled her smile, and turned her watery eyes to Sherlock fondly

'Mother, did you get the pamphlets I sent you?' Sherlock's mother said tightly, with pursed lips.

'Oh?' Grandmother upturned her lip and raised a thin brow. The old woman looked ready to flick her peas at Sherlock's father with her fork.

'Yes, mother' Sherlock's mother said a little agitated.

'I threw them out because I was sure you sent me the same ones I got 3 weeks ago' Grandmother explained coyly.

'Did you keep those then?'

'I would've dear, but I was sure I had some before even those ones' Grandmother sighed, 'You know how I am, old and senile – I forget things.' She grinned at her fuming daughter and her bored son-in-law, Mycroft was staring between grandmothers and mothers standoff a little warily. Sherlock was just trying hard not to laugh, or choke on the mouthful of potato he just ate.

* * *

Sherlock is sent to bed, really; a 12-year-old boy was old enough to take himself to bed – but it wasn't too bad, Grandmother was taking him to his room he would be staying in for the next 2 weeks because his mother had made her self quite ill with stress and worry.

'Just like her father – worried about everything and anything all at the same time. Poor girl, always gave herself a migraine' Grandmother tutted, walking down the hallway.

This was quite exciting really, as Sherlock was only quite young last time he was in this house – this would be the first time he wouldn't be in the guest room mother and father were in. Maybe it was because mother been driven to wits end by her youngest or she just wanted a good night sleep that she had simply stated that Sherlock can stay in the blue room; her childhood room.

Not even Mycroft had ever gone in there; as with his work and this was a very old house he needed power for his laptop so he was in one of the rooms in the newly renovated side.

'I hope everything is to your liking, I'm sure your mother's favourite books are still in the shelf…' Grandmother muttered a little fondly, walking to a blue door and turning the handle – Sherlock thought he could feel someone watching him, with a frown he turned to look around and above, seeing the dim lights. He thought he saw an odd shadow but it was probably a moth fluttering hopelessly around a false sun.

'Sherlock?' Grandmother questioned.

'Nothing - thought I saw something…' Sherlock shook his head and followed his grandmother into the dark room, the light flicking on revealing the comfortable looking bed with hand knitted blankets, young pictures of Sherlock's mother on a plain dresser.

'I haven't been in this room in years…' Grandmother softly lamented, putting a hand over her heart as memories flooded back. An old rocking chair, one Sherlock could imagine his mother rocking back and forth on near the wall of books and an old record player sat in a corner; unused and unloved. But then, Sherlock noticed something simply marvellous;

It was a doll house, undoubtedly made by Sherlock's grandfather it looked like a set of old Georgian era apartments. All lovely, and a hand painted number on the brick pattern painted house;

221B Baker Street.

'That was a favourite of your mothers, I had asked if she had wanted it – but having 2 sons, I suppose she didn't want it broken or damaged.' Grandmother explained with a sigh.

'Grandfather made this?' Sherlock pointed to the doll-house, he opened it up – it had working lights and everything.

'Of course, he used to make wooden carvings of the drawings I brought back – it was much later when he made this'

'This seems awfully grand for a child'

'It was, but the doll-house was meant to be a shared gift – to an old friend of your grandfather's'

'Friend?'

'Your grandfather always told this story, that once he had lost his way in the snow – that he had met a little person…just like you or me – just little. About the size of your thumb, the little person didn't speak but with patience did he lead your grandfather back home' Sherlock's grandmother paused and stared at the house, 'He began making it even before I was expecting your mother, he wanted to see if the little person would come back, if he had his own family, wife and children. He wanted to give them a house, as a thankyou'

'A girl I knew made a house for little people' Sherlock muttered.

'A girl?' Grandmother asked, while moving to the bed – pulling back the covers.

'Her name is Irene' Sherlock shrugged.

'A pretty name for a pretty girl I wager' Grandmother winked and chuckled, making Sherlock scrunch up his face in disgust.

'Girls are annoying' Sherlock huffed but then looked at the old woman unsure, 'Is there such things as 'little people'?'

'Well, what do you think?'

'Seeing is believing' Sherlock said making his grandmother sigh, and shake her head a little.

'Well, you might see them – they scare easily, and you can never see them fully in your sights only in the corners of your eyes' Grandmother hummed a little.

Sherlock nodded with a determined look,

'I'll stay up till I spot them'

'You need sleep, Sherlock' Grandmother said, not sternly of course – more like a suggestion.

'But sleep is boring!' Sherlock whined throwing his body against the bed.

Grandmother chuckled, and pulled the boy to the bed and tucked him in (right after Sherlock had slipped into his night-clothes muttering).

As Sherlock's grandmother turned heel, it didn't take a genius to see the flicker of sadness when she saw the little house again, with a pause did she continue outside, flicking the bedroom light off – leaving Sherlock in the dark.

* * *

As the older woman exited the hallway and she too got the feeling as though she was watched, she turned to look up to the hanging light in the ceiling – a weird, fluttering shadow was still there.

* * *

TBC?

Woo you meet John in the next chapter.


End file.
